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Brainwaves, Downloads … and Lap Dancing (Feature)
Friday, 01 October 2010 Written by David Evans


Obviously I can't be sure, but I bet I'm not the first person to say that apart from being a talented singer/songwriter, Robyn Hitchcock is a clever chap in more ways than one. I've even thought of pretending I'm a lifelong fan, hoping that those who believe in the birds-of-a-feather adage might think I'm a bit of a bright spark myself.

But like the beauty pageant finalist who just came right out and said that she hated kids, animal hair brought her out in hives, and the very thought of a land mine gave her a migraine, I'm going to admit that up until a week or so ago, if he had stopped me in the street and asked for directions, I wouldn't have known who he was … and to those who might be wondering if the fault lies with my ignorance or his obscurity, let me say that a million-plus posts on Google suggests you wouldn't be too wide of the mark if you dumped the blame chez moi.

Its verging on the pathetic I'll grant you, but if I was desperate for an excuse to defend myself, I could say that despite a career spanning the best part of 40 years he has never had a hit record, but that wouldn't help explain how I managed to miss something as significant as his collaborations with Nick Lowe and John Paul Jones and Peter Buck and Bill Riaflin … and before I decide I've worn this old hair shirt for long enough, let me tell you what a fool I felt when I learned about him being a talented artist and short story writer; and if that doesn't mark him out as exceptional, check out the cast list for the remake of the Manchurian Candidate … oh, and by the way, that wasn't the only one of Jonathan Demme's films he has appeared in.

And so, in the light of such achievements, I'm leaving myself open to all manner of accusations - the least offensive of which is 'trite' - when I say that one of his beyond-my-grasp brainwaves got me thinking about lap dancing … and just so people don't go around saying I've got a smutty mind, let me tell you about this story which first appeared in a local newspaper.

If I say that the editor had once devoted three column inches to the demise of the local postmistress' infirm and bad-tempered Sheltie, you might recognise the kind of rag I'm referring to.

ImageI can't remember exactly how the headline was worded, but the front page splash reported on the District Council's objection to a giant advertisement for a lap dancing web site which appeared in a field directly beneath the incoming flight path to Gatwick Airport. The adjacent aerial photograph showed a white-painted silhouette of a pole dancer along with the dot.com address and the legend 'Any Time, Any Place, Anywhere'. In response to the council's insistence that the advertisement breached planning regulations, the ad agency's spokesman said they had no intention of removing it, nor would they be paying any fines. The Campaign for the Protection of Rural England chipped in with a statement condemning the use of landscape for advertisements and strangely enough, only one objector made any reference to pornography.

And yet, not everyone took such a dim view; if the reaction down at our local pub was anything to go by, there were a fair few folk who thought it was a bit of a giggle. But interest soon waned and with no news of the location or any murky details of the landowner's payoff to keep the story alive, people soon found something else to gossip about.

But not for long. No siree. When the next edition of the weekly rag carried the report of a pilot overshooting the runway because he was distracted by the raunchy silhouette, the talk was no longer of petty planning regulations: lives were suddenly at risk. The sound of the Health & Safety stormtroopers buckling on their jackboots echoed throughout the Surrey countryside.

Perhaps it was because the council's standing was at an all time low, but I can't have been the only one laughing at the thought of a whole army of jobsworths criss-crossing the county like something out of a Road Runner cartoon. Why on Earth they didn't hire a spotter plane remains a mystery, but having ignored the simple solution, they turned to the streetlight cleaning division and seconded a fleet of flat-back trucks equipped with mechanised hoists. From dusk-'til-dawn eager-beaver officials with binoculars scoured fields and grassland from on high. Chuck Jones would have been proud.

I've no way of knowing if it was officialdom's ineptitude or the ad agency's stubbornness that attracted the national press, but 8 days after the initial publication, one of the daily's ran the story along with the aerial snapshot. Several other tabloids and two of the broadsheets quickly followed suit … and get this: two weeks down the line and I'm surprised we couldn't hear the sound of our antipodean cousins laughing their socks off when the news of the bureaucratic pantomime was reported in the Australian press.

Now I'm only supposing when I say that the councillors in charge of this fiasco were squirming under the international spotlight, but I'll bet my bottom dollar they were hoping the ground would open up when the agency's MD announced to the world that the whole thing was a hoax. There was no field with a pole dancer's silhouette; only a computer-generated photo and a gullible bureaucracy too deluded by their self-importance to entertain the thought of fallibility.

From what I understand, the marketing stunt cost peanuts; goodness only knows the value of the worldwide publicity. And just to rub salt in the wound, the London-based agency's ingenuity was recognised by an industry award for Best Marketing Campaign … my tribute is squat by comparison, but I raise my glass to the people at Sports Media Gaming Limited.

So what's this got to do with Robyn Hitchcock's brainwave? Well, I first made the connection when I read about him updating his web site, and in what amounts to further testament to his forward thinking, he talked of introducing his Phantom 45's - two newly-recorded songs offered free of charge as a download for a limited time.

Now, whenever it comes to computery things, you can rest assured that a technophobe like me will end up scratching the scalp, so to speak. But even in my ignorance, I can't see the difference between these Phantom 45's and a buckshee download offered by any number of hopeful wannabees; and even if there is something I'm missing, the gesture doesn't set my pulse racing.

Now I don't want Mr Hitchcock to think I'm ungrateful, but I really would prefer something tangible; something I could touch and read and lovingly store between Nick Heyward and the Housemartins … and if that means I'm behind the times, I'll take it on the chin.

Alright, I'll grant you that being a natural born collector colours my opinion. A fortnight ago I found a Be-Bop Deluxe album in a charity shop; 99 pence I paid, and played it three times on the spin before storing it away in a brand-spanking-new plastic sleeve. There's no saying when I might give it another whirl. It might be ages before I hear Bill Nelson's voice again. It doesn't matter though. Part of the joy is knowing it's there.

And while you whizz kids are having a good old laugh at my expense, let me make it clear that I'm not entirely blind to the advantages of downloading music.

In an age where time is a ration book commodity, I can appreciate that speed is of paramount importance to some, but don't knock those who feel that the rigmarole of setting up an album or loading a CD is part and parcel of the enjoyment, and anyway, not everything can be done in a rush: my biggest best friend who runs the Robin Hood pub in Cardiff makes some smashing puddings. One of his specialities is a chocolate and orange soufflé. It takes him ages to make but it's worth it. It's light and it's fluffy and he pours an extra splash of Grand Marnier on top when it's cooked. If you're in the manor you should give it a try … and if you're one of those people who can't be bothered to wait, there's a shop around the corner that sells Jaffa Cakes.

But enough of yummy puddings and impatience; by far and away the biggest advantage hinges on freedom of choice. No more forking out for albums padded out with self-indulgent dross.

I recently came across a record industry report. Heavy going, it was. But in amongst the pie charts and graphs and highfalutin forecasts were statistics showing that overall album sales - including CD's - were down 3.5% on the previous year, and this despite a 56% increase in downloaded albums.

But far more significant was the record-breaking sales of single track downloads - 150 million and rising: a welcome triumph for people power . which, I hasten to add, is all well and good for future generations, but as I shuddered at the thought of the fortune I've spent amassing my collection, I could feel a nagging urge to find out just how many of my albums I would have downloaded in their entirety.

Brutal honesty was the order of the day. Reputations counted for nothing. Favourites could expect no favours. One naff track was enough to earn the stamp of rejection.

For obvious reasons I excluded the compilations, and if only to give my pride a fighting chance, I ruled out all the best-sellers like Rumour and Thriller. Fair enough; they wouldn't have sold in their zillions if every track wasn't a classic.

So, what about the outcome? Well, what with Ryan Adams and Joan Armatrading, and Blur and Deborah Bonham's Old Hyde, the A's and B's got things off to a flying start; but when I exited the C's with more Christopher Cross - yep, that's right - and Marc Cohn than Clapton and The Cure put together, the writing was on the wall.

I wouldn't normally have been happy, but when my wife started nosing around, asking questions, it was all the excuse I needed to call it a day. I had only got as far as halfway and my pride had taken a battering.

Now don't get the wrong impression. To be fair, she never moans about the money I spend on albums, but having said that, I dread to think what she would have to say if she knew that only 20% of my collection had survived the cut … yep, 20%. Scary, eh?

Anyway, fingers crossed she won't ask … but I bet she will!

Off course I shouldn't take it personally; I bought everything in good faith, but when I think about my vinyl copy of Joe Jackson's Big World, I do feel hard done by. It's a double album, and apart from being his most underrated work to date, it's notable for only having music on three sides. According to the sleeve notes, he didn't have enough quality material to fill all four sides … crikey, just think if more musicians shared the same high standards, then I wouldn't have to tell my wife such a whopping great lie.
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